


i will be where all of your ends meet

by soft_rains



Series: let me be your anchor (i will hold you down) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:01:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_rains/pseuds/soft_rains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles looks out his window at the moon high in the sky, a perfect half, and plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i will be where all of your ends meet

**Author's Note:**

> ***due to recent concerns about tagging in fic, i want to make it explicitly clear that this work does not follow 3b cannon and the relationships developed in it are 100% consensual and informed.

 When you came, you were like red wine and honey, 

And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.   
Now you are like morning bread,   
Smooth and pleasant.   
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,   
But I am completely nourished. 

- _Decade_ , Amy Lowell

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long to figure out that Scott needs his space during _that_ time of the month. After the disaster that was Stiles’ attempt to chain him to the radiator, they realize that solitary confinement probably isn’t the best route. It’s not like they have time to come up with anything else, though: one minute Peter’s trying to kill them all, then Gerard and Matt are trying to kill them all, then Deucalion and Jennifer are trying to kill them all. It’s really just one long crazy train, and by the time they finally manage to get off, Scott’s gotten a major power boost and his self-control is back to being as spotty as it was when all of this started.

So Stiles, being Stiles, plans. He’s got two weeks before the full moon cycles back, plenty of time to come up with a plan that’s not going to end with his dad fielding calls from concerned residents about mournful howling and impossibly red eyes.

When he sits down and actually puts his mind to the task of problem solving, the solution seems pathetically simple. He thinks maybe all Scott needs is a safe place to burn off the excess energy that the moon’s pull imbues him with. It hits him one night as he tosses a lacrosse ball at his ceiling; the preserve is great for midnight runs. Objectively, of course. Subjectively, midnight runs could end with being a supernatural creature’s chew toy, but since Scott’s at the top of the food chain these days, it doesn’t really seem that big of a concern. The more he thinks about it, the more sense it makes.

Derek’s gone after all, left Beacon Hills in the too-bright light of early morning, taking his guilt and his ghosts with him. He won’t be around to chase them off with excuses of private property, and even if he was, he owes them more than a few favors as it is. Stiles looks out his window at the moon high in the sky, a perfect half, and plans.

* * *

“Come on man, I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Scott says, mouth turned down at the corners, “My control is too spotty, I could seriously hurt you,”

Stiles chooses to respond non-verbally to this, pointedly raising one eyebrow in his best _don’t be a dumbass_ look. He thinks Derek would be proud if he could see it. Scott, for his part, sighs exasperatedly, and begins to trail after Stiles, regardless of his misgivings. It’s so reminiscent of that first night, when all of this started, that it gives Stiles pause. Scott trusts him so implicitly, no matter how many times he gets them in trouble and Stiles’ honestly can’t fathom _why_. It makes something behind his ribcage hurt, like pressure on an old bruise that never seems to heal, and his throat feels very dry.

Still, Stiles’ has never been one to let himself get stuck in the moment, so he swallows around the lump in his throat that feels suspiciously like the shape of Scott’s name, and begins to explain the night’s planned activities. It isn’t exactly rocket science, just a modified hybrid of tag and hide ‘n’ go seek. Both of which they were pros at in elementary school, so really, he’s not expecting much difficulty. Scott, whose line of thought is probably similar, seems less wary.

Until Stiles’ pulls the blindfold out of his back pocket.

“Why do I have the feeling I’m going to regret this?” Scott moans through the palm he’s sliding down his face.

“Oh stop being such a spoil sport, it’ll be fun,” Stiles does his best to reassure, “Besides, it will help you with control. The more you use your extra senses, the sooner you master them,”

Scott loses a bit of the tension in his face at this, and nods to himself a little.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. So what; I’m supposed to sniff you out?”

“Well, not just sniffing, you should be relying on your ears and your alpha instincts as well, but yeah, that’s the basic idea,” Stiles explains, aiming for a reassuring smile.

He’s not sure he hits it entirely, nervous himself about whether or not he’s miscalculated horribly, but he thinks it must translate somehow, as he watches the lines of Scott’s shoulders lose some of their tension.

“What about if I take off? You won’t be able to catch up with me, and God knows where I’ll end up,” Scott questions after a minute.

“Ah! I have something for that, just lemme-” Stiles’ cuts himself off as he reaches into his backpack and pulls out-

“Is that a gun?” Scott yelps, and wow, isn’t that an octave Stiles’ never thought he’d hear Scott reach again.

“Oh relax, it’s just a tranq gun, perfectly safe ketamine, same stuff we used on Jackson, stop being such a babywolf” he tries, aiming for light-hearted jest.

“So your backup plan is to shoot me, great,” Scott mumbles, discontent clear in the words.

Stiles is on the verge of making another joke when Scott buries his face in his hands and scrubs, something that Stiles had branded years ago as sign #31 of Scott verging on a meltdown. His traitorous mind flashes him back to a time when Scott’s hair was still floppy and he still smiled more than he frowned, the movements exactly the same as Scott explained in a quiet voice that his father was gone for good this time.

It’s not that Stiles’ forgets that the last year has happened, because hello, he lived it, but sometimes he forgets just how detrimental this whole supernatural business has been to Scott, sometimes he forgets that seasons have come and gone since the last time he saw Scott smile his patented eight billion megawatt smile, the one that never failed to make Stiles’ heart flop around in his chest cavity. It’s not an accidental forgetting either, which almost makes it worse; he forgets because he has to, because if he dwells on the fact that he single-handedly ruined the life of one of the people closest to his heart, he will get stuck in the self-loathing, dragged down and drowned in the quick-sand slow grief and guilt that has churned low in his stomach since the night Laura Hale was killed. And that, he thinks, is the only worse thing he could do to Scott that he hasn’t already done; making him go on alone. It’s selfish in a way that makes the acid in Stiles’ stomach churn.

Stiles has never been very good with his emotions, specifically expressing them, which is why he will never stop being thankful for the emotional shorthand that he and Scott have, the kind that only a lifetime of existing with another person can create. He walks towards Scott slowly, and peels Scott’s hands away from his face, feeling every single crack in his heart when he notices how they shake in his. Stiles can feel a burning pressure behind his eyes as he wraps his arms around Scott and pulls him forward until their chest to chest, until he feels Scott melt against him, understanding everything that Stiles can’t say: _i’m sorry i’m so sorry i love you i’ll never leave you please be okay i need you to be okay more than anything else._

He’s not sure how long they stay like this, but when he pulls his face back from where he’s been nuzzling into Scott’s neck, the sun has fully set, the moon is rising steadily, and the noises coming from Scott’s chest sound more like growls than choked back sobs masquerading as unsteady breaths.

“Scott, buddy?” Stiles’ asks, voice quiet and cracked.

“‘M Fine,” Scott mumbles back looking at the ground, the trees, anywhere but at Stiles.

Stiles can literally see Scott building his walls back up, brick by brick. He shakes his shoulders a bit, locks his knees, and finally brings his gaze back to Stiles. It guts Stiles in a way he wasn’t expecting, to see Scott plastering on a smile like they didn’t just share what is easily the most intimate embrace in Stiles’ recent memory. But he knows this is what Scott needs, so he lets him get away with fashioning his body into a lie (God knows how many times Scott’s let him off the hook when the position was reversed).

“Alright, lets do this,” Scott says, forcing levity into his voice.

Stiles nods, grabbing the blindfold from where he’d tucked it into his back pocket. He walks behind Scott, means to haphazardly tie the blindfold and start running, but there’s something different about sharing space with Scott now, something that wasn’t there a few hours ago; a kind of magnetism that pulls him closer and closer till he’s pressed chest to back with Scott, no room for air between them. There’s a distant awareness of how all their lines and curves slot together so seamlessly, but it’s easily ignored in favor of Stiles looping the piece of black cloth around Scott’s eyes and tying it in a simple knot at the back of his head. He should start running now he knows, but this thought doesn’t seem to want to translate to action. Instead, Stiles’ hand travels from where tied the cloth, through Scott’s hair, and comes to rest in the juncture between Scott’s neck and throat, his thumb sweeping over Scott’s pulsepoint in slow, measured strokes. It’s okay though, from the way Scott makes a noise in his chest that sounds more like a purr than a growl; it’s a grounding touch that they both need and it seems to make the last of the lingering heaviness disappear. So Stiles stays, just for a minute or two, before dropping his hand.

“Catch me if you can,” he whispers in Scott’s ear before stepping back, quickly grabbing what he needs from his pack, and sprinting for the southwest treeline.

* * *

 Just because Scott has permission to cheat using his wolf powers this time doesn’t mean Stiles intends on being easy prey. This is a learning exercise for him too; it’s beyond time he collects some reliable data on what will mask him from wolves and what won’t.

Just because it’s educational doesn’t mean it can’t be fun, though, he thinks as he zips up the red hoodie that he grabbed out of his bag before he took off. He honestly hadn’t thought about it at the time, going more for irony points with the little red theme than anything else, but standing here in the woods, it hits him that this is the hoodie Scott was wearing the night Peter bit him, that cool, autumn night so much like this one. It’s too tight in the shoulders, and the tops of the sleeves don’t quite reach his wrists, but he’s so comfortable that he doesn’t really care. It seems right, even; so much is coming full circle these days, why not this, them, too? Besides, California gets cold at night, and the sweatshirt is fuzzy and warm and makes something in Stiles chest curl in contentment (he tries his best to stomp down his mutinous brain’s insistence that this comes from being able to smell the remnants of Scott’s body wash in the fabric).

He can’t wait for Scott to figure out that Stiles is masking himself with Scott’s scent. He wishes he could see Scott’s face when he catches on to the fact that he’s basically chasing his own tail. But picturing Scott’s reaction when he realizes he’s crossed over his own scent too many times to properly track it is enough, really.

Stiles thinks he could get used to losing a night of sleep every month.

* * *

 Stiles, for all the tricks he’s got up his sleeve, knows that Scott will catch him, eventually. Still, he thinks it’s pretty impressive that he’s lasted this long. There’s been a couple of close calls, but he had managed to outmaneuver Scott every time he got close enough that Stiles could practically feel his breath on the back of his neck (there was one memorable incident when Stiles caught red, red eyes in the reflection of the pond he had stopped to rest by, and he almost lost the game because his body didn’t seem to understand that it was a mental roadblock, feeling pinned down by those wide, wild eyes). When Stiles checks his phone, he’s a little shocked to see the clock read 3:42 AM. He’d totally lost himself in their game of cat and mouse, but now that he knows just how late it is, his body just seems to say game over. He’s tired and sore in a good way, for once, and he thinks the pull of the moon is weakening more and more as it gets lower in the sky. Not that the moon’s influence seems to be as much of a problem as he thought it might, he reflects. Every time he caught a glimpse of Scott, the wolf had seem hyper-controlled, if anything. Every line of his body had screamed collected and capable and that’s definitely something Stiles makes a note to revisit when they debrief how this went later. He heads for the trail that will loop around to the front of the preserve and is just about to call Scott when he feels the distinct sensation of being watched.

The first snap of a twig alerts him that he’s a goner, the sound probably Scott’s way of giving him an out. Instead, he stops moving all together, rocking back and forth on this toes, waiting for Scott to make his move. Even though he was expecting it, Scott barrelling into him still knocks the air out of his chest, and when he looks up at Scott, he’s smiling; the blinding, brilliant one that’s been gone so long and it makes Stiles breathless in a whole different way.

“Hi,” Scott whispers, hunkering down over him, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck.

“Hello,” Stiles returns, meaning to sound exasperated, but the smile splitting his face probably ruins it.

“Looks like I win,” Scott comments smugly, tearing off the blindfold, “What’s my prize?”

Even given time to contemplate, he probably still couldn’t tell you the reason he does what he does then, it’s just one of those situations where he says ‘fuck it’ and goes for broke (he does that a lot since his life became a fairy tale). And honestly, he doesn’t even try to fight the urge; it just feels so right to lean up laughing and place a quick peck against Scott’s lips.

What he doesn’t expect is for the smile to fall from Scott’s face completely.

For a few dreadful seconds, Stiles thinks he’s crossed a line, and it makes his stomach bottom out. But when he opens his mouth to start apologizing, Scott swoops down and coaxes him into a kiss that is decidedly less than chaste. It takes a few moments to line up their noses, to get the right rhythm of push and pull, but when they do, it feels like an electric shock through Stiles’ whole body. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s a teenage boy thing or a Scott thing, but all thoughts that aren’t about the drag of Scott’s tongue over his leave his head completely. Stiles wants this forever, but the need for air has to win out at some point. He reluctantly pulls away to take a breath, and he thinks maybe the space will give him clarity to think, but Scott just moves his lips to bite at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw. It’s a good thing he’s already on the ground because he’s fairly sure his knees would have buckled if he were standing. He doesn’t know how they ended up here, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world to have Scott’s weight pressing down on him, to feel the soft curve of his lips mapping the contours of Stiles’ throat, kissing and biting and soothing until Stiles is arching into him and _oh_ -

There’s a heat bubbling low in Stiles’ stomach, and his hummingbird heart feels like it could beat right out of his chest at any moment. He can’t even help the noises he’s making, like Scott is pulling them out from the deepest, most vulnerable part of him, and he’s almost shocked by how little he cares that he’s unconsciously opened that part of himself for another human being to reach into; he knows instinctively that all the most breakable parts of him were only ever Scott’s to hold anyway.

Eventually, Scott tears himself away from Stiles’ neck, and the sight of him makes Stiles chest _ache_. Scott’s lips are swollen and when he runs his tongue over the bottom one, eyes burning red, something in Stiles catches fire. He knows they should talk about this, but his brain seems to have taken an extended vacation; his body is in control now. And his body _wants_.

Stiles launches himself at Scott’s lips, wrapping his arms around Scott’s shoulders and dragging him back down until there’s no space between them, until Stiles can roll his hips against Scott’s with purpose and swallow the choked off moans Scott is panting into his mouth. The world narrows down to the feeling of the leaves and dirt on his skin, the way liquid moonlight spills across Scott’s skin, the branding touch of Scott’s hand sweeping across the dips and planes of his body. Everything about this moment is warm and safe, so he lets himself sink into it, luxuriating in the pleasure of wanting and being wanted in return.

For a while, time is irrelevant.

Which is understandably why Stiles doesn’t even notice the new day coming on until the world around him starts slowly shifting from pitch black to dark purple. He realizes the sun will start to rise any minute now, which means that joggers will start their morning runs sooner rather than later, and he’d rather not get arrested by his own father for public indecency, so he squeezes the back of Scott’s neck firmly and scrapes together enough self-control to pull his mouth away from Scott’s.

Scott, for his part, looks dazed and a little confused, lashes low, lips slick with spit, and God, Stiles wants to do _filthy_ things to him.

“As fun as this has been,” Stiles starts, a bit taken aback by how rough and low his voice has become, “I think we better move this somewhere a little more private before the rest of the world wakes up.”

Scott just blinks, like it’s taking genuine effort to force his brain back online to process the words, and God, Stiles has no words for how it feels to know that he did that to Scott. Scott, who values having a clear head more than most anything else. The cause and effect loop of this new physicality between them is _intoxicating_ , Stiles thinks as his hands trace back and forth across the bones of Scott’s hips. The way Scott leans into the touch ruins him for anything but wanting to take Scott apart and put him back together over and over until Stiles is stuck in his marrow.

Still, the first hues of pink and orange are starting to spill across the skyline; their grace period is over. Scott seems to understand this, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck and sniffing (it should be weird, but the brush of Scott’s nose against his pulsepoint makes something in his stomach coil) before pulling himself up and offering Stiles a hand.

Of course that hand reels him in and presses them chest to chest a soon as Stiles is vertical, which is just so counterproductive, but Stiles can’t bring himself to care. It’s stupid and ridiculous and so _high school_ , but it makes his heart ache in the most perfect way to think that Scott can’t stand to pull away from him.

Stiles breathes, in and out, and tries to make sense of all the jumbled things in his head, what this shift means, if it’s really as sudden as it seems. He doesn’t really get anywhere with it, though. He’s running on zero hours of sleep and Scott’s hand is stroking up and down his back in a steady rhythm; how is he supposed to think about anything but how _warm_ Scott is and how that would translate into curling up in bed with him?  
  
“C’mon,” he whispers in Scott’s ear, voice a little slurred, which makes perfect sense because he feels positively drunk on Scott’s presence, “I think it’s time for bed, don’t you?”

“You’re such a menace,” Scott groans, as Stiles slowly draws that earlobe between his teeth.

Stiles can’t help pulling back to smile at Scott, but he also can’t help but think about how much he wants to get his tongue on Scott’s clavicles, on the mole just under his chin, on every single inch of his body, really.

Scott’s eyes darken, red ringing blown out brown.

“I can smell that, you know,” he mumbles, voice pitched deep.

“Watcha gonna do about it?” Stiles taunts, reaching behind him to move Scott’s hands from the small of his spine into the back pockets of his jeans.

Scott, for his part, doesn’t hesitate, just squeezes and strokes for a few minutes, until Stiles is just boneless enough to sag against him and starts seriously considering semi-public sex, before grabbing his keys out of one of the pockets and pressing them into Stiles’ hand.

“I think you mentioned something about a bed,” Scott teases, voice playful and amused.

“Such an asshole, why do I even put up with you?”

Scott smiles with every one of his teeth, and oh, there’s the big bad wolf coming out to play.

“Get us back to your place and I’ll show you.”

* * *

Stiles honestly couldn’t tell you how they got back to his jeep, or how they got back to his house; he just has brief flashes, mostly of Scott’s wandering hands burning holes through his clothing. He only really comes back to himself when he’s just cut the engine and Scott’s at his door opening it and then pulling Stiles out to crowd him up against it.

“No,” he says flicking Scott on the nose, “We have an entire house to ourselves, we are not getting down and dirty in my driveway,”

“Fair enough,” Scott shrugs, before he lifts Stiles up by his thighs, wrapping his legs around his waist and carrying him to the front door, barely pausing to get Stiles’ key in the lock (and God, Stiles really hadn’t considered the nuances of having a werewolf lover, but Scott holding his entire body weight with one arm, effortlessly, makes him hot all over, just thinking about what other perks of werewolf stamina he gets to have makes something explode inside his head).

Stiles’ mind elastic-band snaps back to the moment when Scott slams the door shut behind them and crashes his lips against Stiles’, taking the stairs two at a time. Scott kisses like a drowning man; he steals the breath right out of Stiles’ lungs and then gives it right back, over and over, until Stiles is practically mewling under his practiced mouth.

Somehow they make it to the bed, and when Stiles gets Scott lined up on top of him, everything clicks into place. It’s like all of his misgivings about the universe cease to matter; he knows that this is where he belongs, right here and now, trapped between his cool sheets and the warm body of the boy who’s always been his saving grace.

He wants to stay present for this, to brand every touch, every second into his memory forever, but he gets so caught up in the pleasure that time passes in a series of impressions; Scott’s steady hands sliding his own sweatshirt off of Stiles’ shoulders, open-mouthed kisses against his chest, the feeling of denim against denim, and later, skin against skin when they’re both finally bare.

Stiles feels positively _wrecked_ , but also feels more whole than he thinks he ever has. It’s a strange combination and the weight of it feels like an anchor in his stomach, something he instinctively knows will ground him every time he thinks about these stolen moments in between night and day.

Scott pulls back from where he’s been pushing a burning line of kisses into Stiles’ stomach, and wraps his hand around the base of Stiles’ cock, dragging a moan out of Stiles that should embarrass him, but doesn’t. There’s no room for that here; it’s a safe space, this bed, this tangle of limbs. All of Stiles’ insecurities about himself, about this sudden game change, cease to matter as Scott slowly pumps him, eyes locked on Stiles’ face, as if he can’t bear to miss a single second of Stiles’ shifting expressions of pleasure and _oh_ , that’s-

Stiles can’t qualify this; it’s sweet and slow and scorching, nothing he’s had experience with. He feels like he’s been tossed straight into an inferno, and the flames licking at his insides only get more intense when Scott whispers into his skin:

“D’you have any lube?”

Stiles’ brain short-circuits, completely.

He must have said or gestured something, though, because Scott’s pulling the lube from his bedside table and squeezing some onto his fingers, and when Scott rubs his fingers together to warm the lube up, Stiles heart _melts_ with how much he adores this boy. Scott drapes himself over Stiles and it’s just another translation of how they are each others safety blankets; it feels perfect and safe and natural as breathing.

“Are you sure about this?” Scott questions, warm breath tickling the shell of his ear.

Stiles answers by pulling Scott down by his hair and kissing him as filthily as he knows how, all teeth and lips and tongue.

Scott seems to get the message because there’s a warm finger sliding back around his back, between his cheeks, and circling his hole with slow strokes.

“You don’t have to be so gentle, man,” Stiles chokes out, “Not the first time I’ve done this.”

Scott groans like the air’s been punched out of his lungs, and Stiles smirks. It doesn’t last very long though, when he finally meets Scott’s eyes and sees deep red bleeding into chocolate brown.

“You okay, buddy?” Stiles teases, a little high on the fact that he can affect the alpha like this.

Scott nods dumbly.

“Fuck Stiles, just picturing you stretching yourself out on this bed, I bet you make the most delicious sounds…” he trails off, voice breathy, as if the image is too much for him and _fuck_ -

“Mmm, how about you speed this up and maybe you’ll find out,” Stiles whispers coyly from where he’s peppering kisses across Scott’s jawline.

The pressure of Scott’s thick finger pushing inside him is almost enough to make him come right then and there, but he focuses on holding back, suddenly aching with how much he needs to know what it feels like to be filled up by Scott.

From there it’s slick heat and _obscene_ noises falling from Stiles mouth, a looping soundtrack of keening cries and choked-off groans, and he thinks he may explode soon, but Scott’s hands just keep taking him apart so exquisitely, and Stiles is absolutely gone on it, completely unashamed by the effect Scott has on him. He wants this forever.

He thinks he must have said that last part out loud because Scott raises his eyes from where he’s been watching his fingers disappear into Stiles, smiling bright enough to put entire constellations to shame. He pulls out the three fingers he’s been steadily teasing against Stiles’ prostate (barely-there sweeps that have been making Stiles see stars) and he can’t even complain about how empty he feels when Scott cradles his face in his hands like he’s something precious, something to be treasured, and kisses him like Stiles is his everything.

They lose themselves like this, for a time, before Scott pulls back, stroking Stiles from cheek to jaw, like he can’t bear to not have some point of contact between them. It makes Stiles feel heady and delirious with how much he loves this shooting-star of a boy.

“How do you want to-?” Stiles asks, voice hoarse from the noises Scott has pulled out of him.

Scott seems to consider it for a moment, before turning Stiles on his side, stroking along the slats of his ribs, and curls up behind him.

“Is this okay?” Scott asks, bordering on shy.

“‘S is perfect,” Stiles mutters, overwhelmed with the sheer affection he feels for Scott.

“Do you have condoms?” Scott murmurs through the kisses he’s trailing down the back of Stiles’ neck.

“No, but uh, I wouldn’t mind. I mean I’ve never and you can’t,” he breaks off, biting his lip and feeling warmth flood his cheeks, “Besides, I think I’d like to feel-”

Before he can finish, Scott leans up on his elbow and tilts Stiles head to pull him into a kiss that leaves him tingling from head to toe. He doesn’t really have much to compare it to, but he seriously doubts that anyone kisses better than Scott. It’s all passion and single-minded focus and Stiles still can’t believe that this is happening, that he gets to have this.

They’re still kissing when Scott lifts one of Stiles’ legs up to rest on his hip and lines himself up with Stiles’ hole. Stiles can’t help the sharp gasp he lets out when Scott pushes the head of his cock past his rim. The pressure is intense, but perfect; it burns a little bit, just shy of being painful, and Stiles thinks he might already be addicted to the way Scott pushes his way slowly in, inch by inch.

When Scott finally bottoms out inside him, it feels like a revelation, the kind that you don’t realize was inevitable all along until it crests over you like a wave and tells you _this is always where you were meant to be_.

When Scott laces their fingers together over Stiles’ heart, it feels like coming home.

The slick friction of Scott pulling out and thrusting back in sets his bones on fire, and soon enough they establish a rhythm that’s slow, but so passionate that it knocks the breath out of Stiles on every set of push-pull pleasure they loop through. He knows he isn’t going to last; he can feel it coming in every point of connection between him and Scott. It feels like he’s on the edge of a long drop, but it’s okay because he knows instinctively that Scott will be there to catch him every time.

When Scott uses his free hand to start jacking Stiles off, Stiles almost shouts with how good the dual sensations feel. He can’t decide if he should fuck back onto Scott’s cock or up into Scott’s fist and oh, how he loves this. He feels as though he’s unraveling thread by thread, and he gives the yarn of himself over, knowing Scott will take the frayed and faded pieces and give Stiles back a work of art, something beautiful in it’s simplicity, the intertwined strands of two lives lived as one.

“Scott, I can’t, I’m gonna,” Stiles breaks off with a truly filthy moan.

Scott just keeps thrusting in and out, sweet and slow and perfect as he gets his teeth in Stiles’ pulse point.

“Do it,” Scott groans, “Wanna feel you, c’mon Stiles,”

“Fuck, Scott, I-” Stiles almost gives it all up then and there, catches himself at the last moment.

Scott tilts his head so that Stiles has no choice but to look Scott in the eyes, burning alpha red, with pupils eaten out by lust.

“I love you,” Scott whispers, looking at Stiles like he’s the answer to a long-pondered question.

That’s all it takes. Stiles practically wails as he comes harder than he has in recent memory, come smattering his stomach in thick ropes.  

“Oh fuck, Stiles,” Scott moans, and Stiles can’t even wrap his head around how pornographic his own name sounds tripping off Scott’s tongue.

It doesn’t take long for Scott to follow, erratic thrusts losing rhythm entirely before he pushes in one last time and comes buried as deeply into Stiles as he can get.

Stiles can already feel come leaking out and down his thighs, and he knows it will be tacky and gross later, but right now it feels so right, so intimate that he can’t even help the swell of emotion pressing against his ribcage, can’t help the way it translates to tears burning behind eyelids. He tries to blink it back, but Scott knows somehow, without even looking, and pulls him into the sweetest kiss Stiles has ever shared with another person.

“Me too, y’know,” Stiles whispers shakily into Scott’s mouth when he pulls back for air.

By the time Scott has softened enough to pull out and turn him around so they’re face to face, the sun has really started to rise, and morning light pours through the window to paint Scott’s skin all these holy kinds of colors. Stiles is so enamored by the sight that it takes him a few minutes to realize that Scott is looking at him like he hung the moon. Stiles doesn’t really know what to do with that, aside from bury his face in the pillow, a shy blush staining his cheeks.

Scott just smiles wider, all teeth and warm happiness, and runs his fingers along Stiles’ collarbones, like everything he’s ever needed is in this moment. Stiles gets it, though; he feels the same way. As Stiles leans in to kiss that stupid, endearing smile, he hears the morning birds start chirping sweet and low in the distance, and it feels like they’re singing in the start of a new life.

**Author's Note:**

> i could lie to you and tell you there's a sequel coming that will explain all of the plot holes and undeveloped ideas, but i prefer to be a truther.


End file.
